The Geometry of Holding Hands

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “You certainly can’t,” said Isabel.

  “It’s rough. It looks thicker than ordinary human hair.”

  Isabel raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps that’s what she likes. A bit of texture.” She paused, looking around to see if they could be overheard. Everybody was otherwise occupied, and a few of the guests were even looking at the pictures.

  “It’s his face too,” Isabel continued, “and…” She dropped her voice even lower. “And his hands—the palms of his hands. They look as if they’re padded. It’s most peculiar, but they look like the pads of feline feet. Rough pads, just like a cat’s.”

  Jamie’s face broke into a grin. “Let’s not fantasise too much.”

  “Oh, I know,” said Isabel. “And yet it’s what I pick up from him. It’s a sense of being in the presence of another species.” She paused. “Perhaps Cat is a sort of Circe. Do you think she might be?”

  Jamie looked blank. “Circe?”

  “The Odyssey?” Isabel prompted.

  “Oh, her. The woman who changed people into animals?”

  “Yes. She transformed Odysseus’s men into pigs. But she had potions to change people in other ways. I saw a painting here—Tommy may remember it—of a man given the head of a lion by Circe. It’s one of the saddest pictures I know. It made me feel—”

  Jamie interrupted her. “Do you want to hear what happened?”

  Isabel said she was sorry. “I know I have a tangent problem, but some tangents are just so interesting, I can’t help going off along them.”

  “I like your tangents,” said Jamie, fondly. “I wouldn’t want it otherwise. But to get back to where we were, Cat was completely cool about the information. She just said, ‘Oh, I didn’t think they’d approve—but I thought I’d try.’ ” Jamie paused. “And so I said, ‘You don’t mind?’ And she didn’t hesitate; straightaway she said, ‘I don’t mind at all. It wasn’t for the business, strictly speaking—it was for me. I’m fed up with my VW Golf.’ ”

  Isabel’s jaw dropped. She had not anticipated so brazen an explanation.

  Jamie continued, “Then she said, ‘They’re sitting on stacks of cash. I don’t see why I shouldn’t have a bit of it.’ So I said, ‘I thought that perhaps Leo was behind the Porsche idea.’ ”

  Isabel waited. Once again, the next disclosure was a surprise.

  “I wondered whether she would resent my inference, but no, she didn’t mind it at all. The true position, she said, was the exact opposite. ‘Leo doesn’t like those cars—Porsches, Lamborghinis and so on. He likes Land Rovers—and the older the better. He’d like to get his hands on a 1948 Defender, if he could—that’s when they first started to make them.’

  “I listened to this,” Jamie continued, “with my eyes out on stalks. And to underline the message—if she was trying to give me a message—she said that Leo didn’t even know about it.”

  Jamie stopped. He looked at Isabel, waiting for her reaction. “I wasn’t sure whether to believe her,” he said. “But I do, you know. Having thought about it, I think that she was being completely truthful. I don’t think this is anything to do with Leo—I really don’t. What about you?”

  Lost in thought, Isabel did not reply immediately. In her mind, she went over the possibilities. Cat was lying—that was one: they had tried something that had simply failed, and in order to protect her pride, she was affecting indifference. That was certainly possible. Then there was the possibility that she was telling the truth, for the reasons she had set out to Jamie. Who wouldn’t be tempted to ask for something expensive if he or she thought there was a chance that the request would be granted? And then there was a third possibility, and that, as she thought about it, seemed all the more likely the more she considered it.

  When you start negotiating for something, it is often a good strategy to ask for too much. Then, when your request is turned down, you come up with another one that is considerably more modest. You didn’t give me that, but it would be churlish, surely, not to grant me this more modest request. It was a tried and trusted bargaining technique of the sort solemnly and interminably discussed in the pages of airport books on negotiation and management. This was what anxious executives, hoping to make their way up the corporate ladder, read on their way to meetings. And there, on the back cover, would be the author’s photograph, with a rehearsed smile and all the confidence about him of one who knows how to get what he wants.

  She ran this possibility past Jamie, who umm-ed and ah-ed before eventually saying, “Let’s see.”

  Tommy had returned. “Iain Melrose would like to introduce you to the artist,” he said. “He’s over there.”

  They followed Tommy to a small knot of people standing on the edge of the main display. Iain Melrose, seeing them approach, made a beckoning gesture, and then leaned over towards a tall, slightly emaciated man in a brown Harris tweed jacket. This man turned round and smiled in their direction, moving slightly to open the circle to them.

  “My cousin Jack,” said Iain. “And Hilary, his wife.”

  A petite woman in a blue cocktail dress reached out to shake Isabel’s hand.

  “We’ve met,” said Hilary.

  Isabel was momentarily flustered. “Of course…”

  “You won’t remember,” said Hilary. “Six years ago. Jury service.”

  Isabel’s potential embarrassment evaporated. “Of course. The High Court. Yes, of course.” And she did remember now, because they had spent three days in one another’s company, along with the thirteen others who made up a Scottish jury of fifteen. She would never have made that connection without being prompted, but now it came back to her.

  Jack turned to his wife. “Remember, Hill, you can’t talk about those things. What happens in the jury room stays in the jury room.”

  “Oh, I know that,” said Hilary. “And I’ve forgotten just about everything that was said.”

  Isabel was quick to agree. “Me too,” she said. But she had not forgotten, now that the memory had been stirred.

  Jack turned to Isabel. “It’s good of you to come tonight. It’s an artist’s nightmare that a show will open to an empty room.”

  Jamie said, “There’s no danger of that with your work.” Then he added, “I really like these paintings.”

  Hilary said, “Jack’s style is maturing. That’s what the Guardian critic said.”

  “She was twenty-two,” said Jack, laughing.

  “And Duncan Macmillan has been very complimentary,” Tommy observed from the edge of the circle. “He’s been writing about Jack for some years now. He says that he’s the heir to Bonnard and Vuillard.”

  This seemed to embarrass Jack, who shook his head vigorously. “That’s very kind of him,” he said. “But I’m not fit to look at the dust from their chariot wheels as they drive past.”

  “I can see why Duncan would say that,” observed Tommy. “Somebody else made a similar point. It’s the intimate nature of what you paint.”

  Hilary, sensing her husband’s discomfort, tactfully broke up the circle. Taking Isabel by the arm, she led her towards the window that looked out over the rear garden of the gallery.

  “Iain told us about you,” she said. “He mentioned that you’d agreed to be the trustee of his will.”

  Isabel gripped the stem of her wineglass. This could be excruciating, she thought; I should not have accepted.

  “He asked me rather out of the blue,” she said, trying to sound casual. “I don’t really know Iain.”

  Hilary seemed interested in this. “Really? I thought that perhaps you were an old friend.”

  “Not at all,” said Isabel. “We have some connections, I suppose you might call them. He knew my father, who was a lawyer here in Edinburgh. But they did not know one another terribly well. And we have a mutual friend in Guy Peploe.” She looked around the crowded gallery be
hind them, as if hoping for rescue by Guy. “He’s over there.”

  Hilary glanced in the direction in which Isabel was looking. “Yes, of course. Guy has always been very supportive of Jack’s work. All the way through. Years ago, he took some of his paintings down to the London Art Fair and I think that’s what really got him started—at least with collectors down in England. He always had his followers here in Scotland.”

  “Jack’s obviously doing well,” said Isabel. “It must be terrible to have to struggle as an artist. You may know that your work’s good, but the public doesn’t always get it, does it?”

  Hilary laughed. “Not to mention the critics.” She looked out of the window. Isabel noticed that a thin stroke of eyeliner applied above her right eye had begun to run. She was lightly made up, her skin seeming supple. What age was she? Very early forties, thought Isabel—a few years younger than Jack. She had the air of somebody who went to the gym reasonably often, Isabel thought; or played tennis, as her upper arms were firm, even slightly muscular.

  Hilary brought the conversation back to Iain. “It’s very sad about Iain, isn’t it? He looks so well, even now.”

  “He’s being very brave, I imagine,” said Isabel. “But so many people are, aren’t they? They make the most of what time is left.”

  “Which I suppose is what we all should do,” Hilary said, bringing her gaze back to Isabel. “We should all make the most of our time, because it’s all finite, although in different measure.”

  Isabel wondered whether she should say carpe diem. It expressed everything that needed to be said on that subject, and expressed it rather succinctly, as Latin expressions tended to do. But Hilary continued, “I hope you don’t mind my talking to you.”

  “Of course I don’t,” said Isabel. She would prefer not to be having this conversation, but that was not the same as minding talking to Hilary.

  “You see,” Hilary went on, “I wouldn’t want you to think I was trying to influence any decision you might make.”

  Isabel took a deep breath. That was the fundamental problem with this arrangement: it was inevitable that when she met the potential beneficiaries they would try to make their case—it would be strange if they did not. After all, this was what in commercial circles was called a “beauty parade,” where firms pitching for business sought to impress those who might give them a contract. “I think it’s a rather odd situation, quite frankly. It’s embarrassing for everybody.” She paused. She would be scrupulously correct. If you played strictly according to the rules of the book, then you would have no reason to reproach yourself. If there was a book, of course.

  “I have a completely open mind,” she said. “Sorry if that sounds a bit pompous, but I think I should spell it out. I’ll look at the basic question, which is: Who would be the most appropriate person to look after this estate that Iain is so fond of? And that will obviously involve hearing people’s ideas for what might be done with it.”

  Hilary nodded her agreement. “Yes, precisely,” she said. She lowered her voice. “But there’s one thing I’d like to say right at the outset. Jack and I don’t need the money. We’re very comfortable.”

  “I thought that would be the case,” said Isabel. “These paintings are flying off the wall.” She had seen the exhibition price list: there was nothing under twenty thousand pounds, and one or two of the larger paintings were over sixty thousand.

  “So Jack is not exactly the struggling artist.”

  “A nice position to be in,” said Isabel, neutrally.

  “The point I’m making,” Hilary said, “is that we’re completely relaxed about this. In fact, I think we’d both take the view that were we to be given the estate, we’d look upon it as an obligation, rather than an asset.”

  Isabel felt that she was being led to a conclusion. “You’re saying you wouldn’t sell it.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” She paused. “And, frankly, if it were up to me, I’d have nothing to do with it at all. Jack’s different, though: he has a very strong sense of duty.”

  It seemed that this was the note on which Hilary wanted the conversation to end. Taking Isabel’s forearm, she led her gently towards a large painting around which the crowd had thinned. “Will you come and see us?” she asked. “Some time in the next few days?”

  Isabel nodded. “If I may. I haven’t really had the chance to chat to Jack very much.”

  “An opening is the very last occasion to try to engage with an artist,” said Hilary. “May I call you to arrange things? You might like to see Jack’s studio. We’re in the Grange—not far from your friends Peter and Suzie Stevenson.”

  “I’d like it very much,” said Isabel. She was puzzled: How did Hilary know that she was friendly with the Stevensons? Was Edinburgh that village-like? she asked herself.

  She gave Hilary her number and then turned to look at the painting.

  “You see the man’s hands,” said Hilary, pointing at the picture. “See how strong they are.”

  “Yes,” said Isabel.

  “He does hands very well,” said Hilary. “Better than anybody, I’d say—other than Bonnard.”

  Jamie arrived at Isabel’s side. Isabel noticed that when he came to stand beside her, Hilary gave him an appreciative glance. It was what virtually all women did when they saw him, and Isabel was used to it; she was usually bemused by it—rarely was she resentful.

  “My husband,” said Isabel.

  Hilary recovered herself quickly. Her look, just a few seconds ago, thought Isabel, had been unmistakeably carnal. Women, thought Isabel, by and large did not mentally undress men in the way in which many men mentally undressed women, but some did. Hilary was one of them.

  Jamie said, “I think it’s getting on.”

  Isabel glanced at her watch. She was keen, now, to get away. “So it is,” she said.

  She turned to Hilary. “Would you mind if we slipped away? We have something else on.”

  “Of course not,” said Hilary. “And these occasions get a bit warm, don’t they?”

  They said goodbye and made their way towards the front door. Isabel had something she needed to confide to Jamie—something troubling that she thought had just made this self-imposed task of hers markedly more difficult. She would talk to him about it later, once she had had the opportunity to reflect.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  EVERY TUESDAY, the Institute of Advanced Studies in the Humanities had its fellows’ lunch. This was something of a picnic, to which people brought fruit and sandwiches which they ate while listening to a work-in-progress paper by a visiting scholar. Isabel was an anonymous supporter of the institute, signing a generous cheque twice a year to support its activities, and in return was invited to its functions. She was an occasional participant in the Tuesday lunch, choosing to listen to various obscure and recondite papers on subjects she might otherwise never have explored. In recent months she had enjoyed listening to a visiting Italian professor on the roots of commedia dell’arte, an English social historian on self-help societies in nineteenth-century pottery towns and, inadvertently, Professor Robert Lettuce on the ethics of memory.

  Professor Lettuce had been a substitute for a speaker who had been afflicted with a heavy cold and had called off at the last moment. Isabel had been surprised to see him there when she arrived, and even more surprised when she learned that he was that afternoon’s speaker. For his part, Lettuce had been courteous, although distant. He still resented Isabel’s ownership of the Review, which he had previously tried to take over for his own purposes. He had other grounds for resentment, one of which was his suspicion that Isabel was somehow a threat to his ambitions within philosophical circles in Edinburgh. This she was not: if Professor Lettuce felt thwarted in Edinburgh, it was because of his failure to understand that he was in Scotland, a nation with its own traditions and preoccupations. That was not always f
ully appreciated by academics whose focus was Oxbridge or London.

  Now, as she entered the room in which the Tuesday lunchtime seminars took place, Isabel saw that there was no sign of Lettuce. She recognised one or two of the members of staff from his department, along with the director and administrator of the institute. Finding a seat in the back row, she unwrapped the salad roll she had brought for her picnic and picked up her copy of the information sheet that had been placed on each seat. Professor George van Driem, she read, is Professor at the University of Bern and will be talking today on the classification of Himalayan languages.

  Professor George van Driem…The name was vaguely familiar, but Isabel could not immediately recall where she had heard it. She looked towards the front of the room where a tall, distinguished-looking man was conferring with the director of the institute. Her gaze moved over the heads of the audience, now rather larger than the normal crowd expected at the Tuesday lunch. And that was when she saw Hamish and Gordon sitting only a couple of rows away from her, Hamish eating a sandwich and Gordon peeling an orange. Hamish turned at almost the moment Isabel saw him, and nudged Gordon to alert him to Isabel’s presence.

  It came back to Isabel. Hamish and Gordon’s conversation could have a stream of consciousness tone to it, but it had its saliences: now she remembered their mentioning a Dutch professor they had met in Nepal. That would explain their presence at the seminar.

  The chairs next to Isabel being unoccupied, the two lawyers now came across to join her.

  “Do you mind?” Hamish asked. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw you—I know nobody here, not a soul.”

  “It’s not our usual milieu,” said Gordon. “Mary and I go to the lectures at the National Gallery, but that’s about it.” Mary was Gordon’s wife, a rather worried-looking woman with an interest in horses, who was related, in some unspecified way, to the inventor of the telephone.